Writ In Scars
by Jessie Rose 911
Summary: This is a rewrite of my story "The Mute". Enjoy!


Tucked away in a forest with nothing but deer tracks for paths, there was large, old, charcoal grey cottage. Despite it's coloring, it had an aura of warmth and peace surrounding it. On it's porch there was a black-haired man with a large hooked nose and sallow skin. He sat, relaxed, in an old wicker chair and sipped at a cup of coffee. On his lap was a slowly disintegrating book, which told of mysteries such as how newt's eyes reacted when thyme was added too soon to a concoction. Severus Snape took another drink of his brew and hummed to himself, pleased in his solitude.

Suddenly his head snapped up. He peered intently to the southern border of his land. He had felt a disruption in the wards to that direction, which could only mean another wizard had crossed the invisible border. After a few moments a rustling could be heard, then distinct footsteps. Severus got up and double checked that he had his wand in it's holster. He felt more and more ill at ease the closer he got to the short, dark haired figure that had disturbed his peaceful morning.

The figure stopped when he noticed the potions master and shifted uneasily on his feet, as if wondering if he should run. Snape came closer until he could see the visitor clearly and then couldn't bring himself to go farther. It was Potter. It was Harry I-live-to-make-life-hard Potter, and he was very seriously hurt. A horrible wound ran from the bottom tip of the famous scar to the edge of the boy's jaw, permanently shutting his left eye. Another scabbed over laceration ran across his throat, as though someone had slit his throat and Potter had simply refused to die. His ratty, grey plaid shirt hard horrible, red-brown stains.

One vivid eye regarded him steadily. Thin, long fingered hands ticked and fidgeted around the straps of a ragged bag. He looked very, very tired, and in no small amount of pain.

Severus had to force a hard swallow before he spoke. "Potter." The boy raised his eyebrows, as if to say "What?" The potions master searched for words, but none were forthcoming. The silence stretched on and pretty soon Potter was shifting restlessly on his feet, looking as if he was considering fleeing. "Come on, then," was what he finally settled on. He turned and stalked away, gut churning. He glanced over his shoulder to see if the boy was following. He wasn't. He stood there where Severus had left him, looking ruefully deliberating. "You at least need those wounds cleaned before you go running off," he snapped, feeling especially waspish. Potter gave him one more long, calculating look before starting after him. He paused again before crossing the threshold into the cottage. Snape harrumphed at him and gestured impatiently inside. Potter shrugged his bag higher up onto his back and tightened his hold on the straps. After one long, suspicious look that reminded Snape alarmingly of a predator, he stepped carefully inside.

Snape wondered if he should call Dumbledore. The old coot was no doubt looking for the wayward hero, but Snape was uneasy about giving Potter's location away to anyone.

The first thing he had done was show the young wizard to the bathroom and give him a few old towels. They were sure to be ruined by all the blood. Next he had given him a few healing salves and potions, as well as fresh bandages and clean clothes. Potter had certainly taken his time, and he looked even more pathetic when he emerged.

The clothes were quite simply too large, and hung off of him pitifully. With all the dirt and blood scrubbed from his skin, he looked far more pale than Snape thought healthy. Bandages were carefully applied on his face and neck, and Snape saw the bulge of more under his shirt on his arms and torso. What was shocking was that there was a shock of silver-white hair above his scar now.

Potter made eye contact quite deliberately and then nodded. Snape supposed this was a thank you. The boy had not made a peep since the moment he had spotted him, and he hypothesized that the slash across his throat was to blame. He nodded back and cleared his throat awkwardly. "There's food." He could've kicked himself. Why the absolute hell was he helping the brat? He'd given clothes and let him get cleaned up, wasn't that enough? A single emerald eye watched him incredulously. Snape made an irritated sound and swept away to the kitchen.

Harry stood and fidgeted in the hall for a moment. He felt much better now that he was clean and had a few healing potions in him. Why Snape was being hospitable was beyond him, though he certainly appreciated it. He hadn't meant to intrude; he had just been trying to get as far away from anywhere as possible. Which was a stupid and flimsy plan, even he knew that, but what else really had there been to do? When Uncle Vernon had snapped… He shuddered and resolved not to think about it.

Mindful of his aching ribs, he gingerly made his way toward the kitchen. Peeking in, he saw that the potions master was wrathfully making a sandwich. Harry quirked a smile at the situational irony. He went to the front door and gingerly set his ratty bag by the door. He had hopes that he wouldn't have to make a hasty retreat.

Entering the kitchen, he caught the professor's attention. He gestured toward the sandwich, then himself, trying to convey that he would like to help, or would gladly make his own sandwich. Snape arched an eyebrow and growled, "What? I have no time for charades, Potter." Harry flinched back and then pressed his lips together, frustrated.

Snape huffed and conjured a dry-erase board and marker. After blinking in surprise at the muggle objects, Harry gratefully took them. _May I make my own sandwich, sir? And thank you for the potions and clothes._ Snape pressed his thin lips together and pushed the newly made sandwich along the counter towards the boy, and began making another. _Thank you, _read the dry erase board. Harry tried to eat as quickly and neatly as possible, praying that he hadn't angered the wrathful bat of the dungeons unnecessarily.

Snape pinched the bridge of his nose. What the hell was he going to do with the boy? He was being polite, he was hurt, he was Lily's son, and he obviously had nowhere to go. He closed his eyes. He would offer the boy a place to rest for a while. Then he could say he did the best he could for the boy, and could look at that green eye with a clear conscious.


End file.
